


act out passion

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #JFMU 2020, #JustFuckMeUp Fest, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Don't copy to another site, Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e08 Fromage, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Overstimulation, Sex Toys, Sub Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23536192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: Will wakes up confused and hungover in a bed that's not his. On the nightstand, he sees stuff laid out for him, presumably by his drunk self. There is water and aspirin, which makes sense, but also a key, a knife, and a remote control, which don't. Will proceeds to wander out of the room and down the stairs, and that's when he sees his psychiatrist suspended over the banister, trussed up like a gift.Will does the only natural thing, of course: he panics.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 334
Collections: Just Fuck Me Up 2020, Sub Hannibal Prompts, Wendigo & Stag





	act out passion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cinnamaldeide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sober](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514739) by [Cinnamaldeide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide). 



> This is my contribution to the [Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive's](https://twitter.com/hannibalcreativ?lang=en) [#JustFuckMeUp Fest 2020 ](https://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/post/190985644974/allow-us-to-introduce-the-fest-that-needs-no)! (I don't know why I thought this was a good idea since I am incapable of writing either sex scenes or curse words, but here we are.)
> 
> All of my love to the members of the Sub Hanni discord who helped me flesh this out and also encouraged me to keep writing when I got stalled mid paragraph. And my deepest gratitude to [Cinnamaldeide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide), who agreed to do this with me - go check out her amazing #CinnAesthetic over [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HCJustFuckMeUp2020/works/23514739).
> 
> Title was inspired by this quote from Jean-Paul Sartre: "We must act out passion before we can feel it". I'm sure Hannibal would one-hundred-percent use that as advice to Will and/or future murder ducklings.
> 
> Finally, warnings! I don't usually write sex scenes nor am I a medical professional, so be warned. The sex is probably not medically realistic or recommended. Will does not ask for consent from Hannibal at all during this process. And also suspending someone for that long a time probably would cause a lot more ill effects than I have superhuman Hannibal suffer. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Will wakes up hungover.

It is not exactly an unfamiliar state to Will – he discovered the joys of whiskey before he even came of age for drinking, and indulged in that joy all through university and especially when he was a beat cop. He used to use it to drown out the clamoring voices in his head, before the other side effects became known and he switched to drugs instead. It’s much easier, he has learned, to use prescriptions than to use alcohol.

That being said, he hasn’t indulged heavily in a while. Still, the horrible taste in his mouth, like something’s died in his mouth, and the pounding in his head so terrible it’s like a train is rattling by next to his bed, can’t be denied. Will groans, and even the sound causes him to cringe. 

But he can’t laze around forever. He has seven furry companions who will soon want to go outside, and they can’t hold their bladder like he can. He knows from experience that if he doesn’t get up soon, he’ll be cleaning up a lot and end up compounding his hangover with bleach fumes.

So Will counts to three – _one, two, three_ – and then gingerly maneuvers himself into sitting position, like a man trying to balance a book on his head. He keeps his eyes shut during the whole process, because cleaning up vomit isn’t any more of an appealing thought than cleaning up doggy business. After finally getting upright, he counts to three again – _one, two, three_ – before he opens his eyes.

Drunk Will is generally helpful to next-day-morning-Will, mostly because Will has the same habits. He doesn’t always clean up after himself, but he’s been consistently leaving water nearby for ages, alongside other random stuff Will doesn’t remember the reason behind gathering.

This time is no different. Drunk Will gathered for next-day-sober Will a glass of water, a couple aspirin, a key, a remote control, and a knife. 

By the time Will has drank the water and downed the aspirin, the world stops spinning quite so much, but he still has no idea why he thought it a good idea to bring himself a remote control, a key or a knife. Upon closer inspection, he’s not even sure where he got the knife from, because it has a fancy design upon the hilt that looks like none of Will’s. But then again, Will’s utensil drawer is a mix-and-match collection of a million random odd ends that he picked up, so perhaps it was just buried. The key doesn’t look like anything special – sometimes owners send him things to fix in locked packages and the key separately to prevent stealing – but the remote control is equally fancy, with a brand name Will does not recognize at all.

Eventually, Will gives up squinting at them. Either he’ll remember why he got them for himself or he won’t, and if he doesn’t and they were important, he’ll find out eventually.

So Will keeps nursing his water, waiting for one of his pack to come and find out and ask to be let outside. Or for the world to stop spinning and echoing. Whichever comes first, really.

When the water is all but gone, Will heaves himself upright and starts the search for his phone. The search for his phone was never part of his habit during university days or during his early cop days, but nowadays, Will likes to be forewarned if Jack’s going to show up and drag him somewhere. Jack would never text him that, of course, but it’s as easy as going to the news to find out if there’s a gruesome kill that would make Jack come calling.

Unfortunately, Will’s phone is not on the nightstand with the water and mystery items. Nor is it in his pocket. And it isn’t on the floor, from he can tell, although the curtains are drawn so the room isn’t very bright.

Will wanders into the hallway, nursing the last few drops of water. His stomach is beginning to wake up and demand actual sustenance to go with the aspirin he dry-swallowed, and he is contemplating thoughts of cooking his newly purchased bacon as he shuffles down the hallway, which seems so much longer now with his throbbing head and slow, wobbly feet. 

The stairs are a terrible endeavor. Each step makes him feel like he’s shaking his brain with a salad spinner instead of just moving a couple of inches down, and he has to stop every other step and pacify himself with imaginings of crispy, salty bacon and soft, buttery eggs. 

Will is in the middle of contemplating whether or not he has any bread to make toast to go with his eggs and bacon when he turns the corner and comes upon a sight on the stairs that drives all thoughts of breakfast, headaches, or dogs out of his mind.

It’s Hannibal goddamn Lecter – Will’s assigned shrink, fellow FBI consultant, and friend who provides food and dog-sitting – who is currently at this moment, naked. 

Naked, and trussed up like a pig head to toe, and drooling.

Will squeezes his eyes shut. It wouldn’t be the first hallucination of Hannibal, of course – Will has had so many, black-shadowed and antler-crowned and feather-covered – but usually, Hannibal is dressed. Composed. His usual self. Will counts to three – _one, two, three_ – and opens his eyes again.

Unfortunately, the sight remains the same. It’s still Hannibal goddamn Lecter – Will’s assigned shrink, fellow FBI consultant, and friend who provides food and dog-sitting – who is currently at this moment, naked, trussed up, and drooling.

A part of Will, the part that isn’t abruptly 100% sober and paralyzed by horror, absently admires the rope work. The knots are solid and well tied, proof of long hours at his father’s knee learning all the knots for a good fisherman, and the ropes crisscross Hannibal’s elongated body to perfectly frame and display him. Not an inch of Hannibal touches either the banister below or the stairway wall he’s hung from, but with one leg extended forwards and the other stretched backwards, he gives the suggestion of a human in flight, about to take a mighty jump. His hands are even bound behind him, like a runner flinging their hands behind them to push their chest forward. His head is bent forwards, likely due to exhaustion, but more ropes form a solid collar around his neck that snakes down to a knots on his chest, so either way, he’s well and truly caught. There’s even a padlock securing the bindings around his wrist.

That is when Will remembers those items he couldn’t understand at the bedside. Now the knife and the key make sense – how else could he have possibly unbound Hannibal from such a compromising situation? 

When Will inches closer, hardly daring to breathe, he hears the faintest whirr of a vibration, and when he leans closer, he realizes the reason for the remote control.

There’s a vibrating plug stuffed inside his psychiatrist, and apparently, it’s been running since Will passed out upstairs.

In Hannibal’s house. 

In Hannibal’s bedroom.

In Hannibal’s _bed_. 

“F—k,” says Will.

It’s like he said the magic password to wake human from stone, because after the word leaves Will’s mouth and echoes into the hallway, Hannibal begins to stir. The ropes creak and groan as Hannibal shifts and stretches, although he can’t get much leverage and certainly can’t break the ropes. The best he manages to do is twist his head around ever so slightly, so that he can fix dazed eyes upon Will. 

Which is when Will learns that not only did he strip his psychiatrist, tie him to his own bannister, and shove a vibrating plug up his butt, he also grabbed one of Hannibal’s stupidly expensive and flamboyantly patterned ties and shoved it into his mouth, because Hannibal can only make faint, muffled pleading sounds.

“I’ll – I’ll go get the key,” Will stammers, and bolts back up the stairs instead of spending one more moment frozen in horror.

The hallway is definitely longer, now that Will is wide awake and more sober. Hannibal’s house is bigger than Will’s, for starters, and he has a butt ton more guest rooms. Will has no idea which is the master, so he just starts opening doors, finding bathrooms, studies, and more guest bedrooms. Of course, the very last door he opens is finally the master bedroom, and when Will goes to fumble for the light on the nightstand, he actually knocks it over entirely, leading to a series of expensive sounding _thumps_. Wincing, Will rounds the bed and turns on the other light, which is when he sees that the thumps were not only the light, but also Will’s phone.

Why he decided to put it on top of a light, Will has no idea, but he snatches it up anyways. To his relief, there are no texts from Jack, and when he swipes sideways, no major headlines pop up.

So Will grabs the key, remote control, and knife, and runs back to the stairs.

Will hasn’t the faintest idea of how to start tackling the hot mess that is the rope suspension around Hannibal, so given that Hannibal is still making faint noises, he opts for the easy choice and fumbles for the remote control. It’s as fancy as it looks, all sleek black and a dozen buttons and no visible signs as to what each button does what. Will hits one at random and then has to scramble to hit another one when the whine of vibration increases sharply and Hannibal straightens so much that the bannister groans alarmingly as Hannibal pulls on the rope. When he finally gets the vibration back to the beginning, Will tries another button, but this one only produces a strange _ding_. He hits it again, confused as to why a plug remote would have a button that makes sounds, only to realize that it’s his pocket that is now vibrating and not the plug.

His pocket which is now chiming.

Will pulls out his phone and panics all over again, because he has a text message, and honestly he would have preferred getting one from jack over the one he’s getting now.

From Alana.

Which says, _Sorry about the whole . . . thing yesterday, I’m just checking in. How are you holding up?_

The cascade of memories begins then: hammering a hole in his chimney, seeing Alana, _kissing_ Alana, being left in the cold when Alana fled and fleeing himself, driving in the snow and ice and darkness to Hannibal’s house, warming his body in Hannibal’s kitchen and his belly with Hannibal’s food, drowning his sorrows in Hannibal’s potent wine as Hannibal watched with dark, fascinated eyes.

Will hates being watched with interest even when he’s sober, never mind when he’s drunk. He’s not sure how that led to him trussing up Hannibal, but his father made him practice his knots until he could do in the dark at a second’s notice, so it’s no surprise he could do it drunk as hell.

Will texts back, _I’m fine_ , because the last thing he needs is Alana driving over to his house only to find him and his car not there. 

This is when the doorbell rings, and Will’s day gets exponentially worse.

Hannibal has a bad habit of not locking his front door – Will has no idea why, although he’s certainly taken advantage of it – so Will dart down the stairs towards the door as fast he dares, only to find Alana pushing it open, dressed in a beautiful red coat, windswept and pink-cheeked, phone in one hand and box in another, an welcoming smile that falters somewhat when she sees Will, disheveled, barefoot, and red-eyed.

“Will? Are you . . . okay?”

Will had once laughed at how Hannibal’s stairs were a twisting nightmare that showed off how ostentatious his house was. Now he squares his shoulders and prays that the twist in the stairs is enough to hide Hannibal’s naked and bound form from Alana, since she has remained just in the doorway.

“I uh . . . came seeking some advice,” Will says, too loud and too quick. “Hannibal told me I was welcome.”

“Hannibal and I were supposed to have breakfast,” Alana says, sweet as pie with a tang of concern. “Although I’m sure he likely has enough for all of us . . . perhaps I should leave? I wouldn’t want to interrupt. Patient-doctor confidentiality, you know.”

Will can’t quite hold back the sigh of relief, although he tries to disguise it. “Yeah, I . . . I mean, I don’t want to make you leave – it’s not – I don’t. Sorry.”

Alana merely smiles. “Don’t worry, Will. I can reschedule with him. Your health is far more important than a breakfast date, I assure you. Although I surprised that Hannibal didn’t cancel; normally, he would have texted me to say he had someone over. He wakes up so early, you know.”

Will doesn’t even need to feign shame; he scuffs at the floor with his feet and mutters, “We, uh, we had a lot of . . . wine.”

“Oh,” Alana says, and mirth turns her smile even wider. “I see. In that case, please let Hannibal know that I’ll be expecting a nice meal another day.”

 _Thank god Alana is polite,_ Will thinks, and waves through a painful smile as Alana tucks her phone in her pocket and heads down the driveway without a single glance backwards. Then he shuts the door, doing his best not to slam it, and turns all the locks just because he can. 

When Will returns to the staircase, he is relieved to find Hannibal still there, although he has no idea where the man could’ve gone. Hannibal’s head is still bowed, drool still gathering around the gag, as though he hadn’t even noticed Alana’s entrance and departure, but Will attributes this to the fact that he can still hear the vibration thrumming steadily from Hannibal’s behind. He can’t imagine if he’d be nearly as composed if he’d been tied up all night with a vibe tormenting him. 

“Er, Dr. Lecter,” Will tries timidly. “Hannibal? I’m just going to, um. Try and. Untie you. Okay?’

Hannibal does not respond.

Will creeps up the stairs and reaches for the gag. The knot at the back of the tie is solid too, and Will fumbles with it for a few good minutes before he finally starts to loosen it. He’s further distracted by the heat of Hannibal’s body, so close and so beautifully presented, and the fact that when he looks down he gets a good glimpse of proof of the fact that Hannibal is apparently uncircumcised and still affected by the vibrator.

Hannibal finally rouses when the gag comes completely off, working his jaw in minute movements, though his eyes are still somewhat dazed when they focus on Will.

“I’m really sorry,” Will stammers. “I don’t – I don’t know what came over – I’ll just unlock you and get you out, okay?”

Hannibal makes a sound at that, something vaguely between a grunt and dissent, but Will just attributes it to pain from being bound all night and starts trying to get the key into the lock. He releases one hand, but Hannibal makes no attempt to try and untangle himself; he instead grabs Will’s arm, his grip faint and shaky but still noticeable.

Will falls still. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

Hannibal works his jaw again. Will has lean close to make out the sounds he makes next, but Hannibal ends up repeating them twice before they make sense.

“Please,” Hannibal whispers, the word cracking like ice on a lake. “Please, Will.”

“I’m – I’m untying you, I promise, I’m working on it – ”

“ _No,_ ,” Hannibal says, sharp as when Will scolds his dogs. “Please. Will. _Please._ ”

Will looks at Hannibal, looks at where his eyes are focused, and swallows. On one hand, Hannibal probably does deserve it, given how long he’s been denied release and left swaying from the stairs as Will snored upstairs. On the other hand, Will stopped kissing Alana because it felt weird; he doesn’t think jerking off his other shrink friend will be any less weird. 

“ _Please,_ ” Hannibal begs, and Will breaks.

Hannibal comes alive as Will jerks him off, twisting and writhing like a sea demon, feral noises emerging from his mouth like a monster chasing down prey. The ropes groan and the bannister creaks, and Will is beyond grateful for the impeccable and sturdy quality Hannibal must have insisted on when he designed the house. He can also see why he used quite so many ropes, because Hannibal is _strong_ , and the gag makes sense given how loud Hannibal is. It’s almost hard to reconcile Will’s prim, proper, pristine psychiatrist with the sweaty, desperate, moaning man humping his hips as best he can into Will’s grip, but it feels good, almost, like being drunk but better, like being high but better, like being in a dream where everything is perfect. He feels _powerful_ , being able to shatter Hannibal and grind him into dust, and wonders if this is what being a psychiatrist is like, having all the answers while the others squirm and flail blindly for the way forward.

Hannibal’s groans reach a fevered pitch, and Will realizes that he has begun talking, deep and dark words that he pours into Hannibal’s ears like a killer weaves a web around a victim.

“Do you like this?” he croons as Hannibal begs in animal noises. “Do you like being helpless? Unable to get away, but unable to move forward? Unable to escape pleasure, but unable to achieve it? Unable to do anything but whine and scream and _beg_?”

“Will,” Hannibal moans, “Will!”

The headiness sinks deep into Will’s bones. He doesn’t feel sober anymore, too drunk on the sense of power and control, but he feels the clarity of it: he knows that if he twists as he jerks upwards, Hannibal shudders so hard red blooms on his skin from the ropes; he knows that if he speeds up, Hannibal jerks wildly to try and match it; and he knows that if he slows down, if he loosens his grip and halves his pace, Hannibal mewls like a cat trapped at the bottom of a well. He can see every single bead of sweat, every droplet of drool, every drip of precum, like all of Hannibal is his to play, as finely tuned as a piano, and Will was an excellent piano player, once.

“Did you know this turned you on, I wonder,” Will taunts. “Being bound and helpless and dangling at the end of a rope? No, I didn’t think so. I can see you, Hannibal. All of you. You like control, like being the puppetmaster, but who said the puppetmaster is without strings?”

Hannibal throws his head backwards, baring his neck, and Will is struck by the strangest desire to _bite_ , to dig his teeth in until blood bloomed, just to see if Hannibal bleeds like any other human, or if he’d just end up with a mouthful of person suit stuffing.

“You’ll never be able to feel pleasure again without remembering this moment,” Will promises, slowing down so that Hannibal has nothing to focus on but him. “Will you?”

Hannibal shakes and shakes, but does not answer, so Will stops altogether, takes his hand away and fishes out the remote control. When he tilts it under the bright light set into the top of the stairs, he can make up the faintest markings now, indicating the _on_ and _off_ buttons, but more importantly, the _increase_ and _decrease_ buttons. 

Will puts his thumb on the _increase_ button, and holds it down until thrum of the vibration is clear even against Hannibal’s desperate screams.

“Will you, Hannibal?” Will repeats. 

Hannibal breaks, then, like a dam giving way until pressure of the first snow melt of spring. He is entirely a mess, to the point where Will bets Alana herself could walk by and not put Dr. Hannibal Lecter together with this sobbing, writhing, desperate man caught in Will’s web. He twists and turns, blindly seeking Will, and says, “Never, never, never, Will, please – ”

“Much better,” Will says, and puts his hand back between Hannibal’s legs.

Hannibal comes like that, wailing and crying and sweating, and Will keeps his hand steady until the final spurts emerge and Hannibal slumps down like his strings have been cut entirely, panting like a racehorse.

The panic does not return, fortunately. Will feels instead of a great tenderness rise up inside of him, and he abandons the idea of picking at the tops in favor of putting the knife to good use. Hannibal’s knife is sharp and well-maintained, but the ropes are of good quality too; it takes a long time until Will can finally let Hannibal down from his suspension. He helps Hannibal down the stairs, one by one, until they reach the ground, where Hannibal takes one step and then slides smoothly down to lie facedown on the floor, eyes closed and chest heaving, apparently not bothered that he’s covered in bodily fluids and probably dirtying his fancy carpet.

Will, still in the grips of a fierce, tender emotion, nudges Hannibal’s legs apart with his foot, and then reaches down to remove the still thrumming vibrator. Hannibal makes a sound when it leaves him, a shudder that goes through his entire body, and then goes still again. 

Will sits down to examine the vibrator after turning it off. It’s not a small one by any means, not discrete and easily hidden. It would take a lot of stretching and effort and time to use it, which says wonders to Will about Hannibal’s . . . proclivities.

It also tells Will that Hannibal is likely open and wet now.

Will crosses his arms and hums in thought. He’s not as desperate for release as Hannibal was, but he can’t deny that watching Hannibal break apart in his hands didn’t sense a surge of desire into his own loins, and maybe it’s his lingering intoxication or maybe it’s his hormones, but he feels the strangest desire to part Hannibal’s legs, lift his waist, and see if Hannibal could accept him easily now that the vibrator has stretched him so well. 

“You know,” Will says thoughtfully to a mostly silent Hannibal, “I know that you prioritize being polite. And I think that it’s awfully impolite that you’re the only one who got off here. What do you say, Hannibal?”

Hannibal, predictably, says nothing.

Will sighs and nudges Hannibal’s leg. “So rude, Dr. Lecter,” he says, shaking his head. “What’s to be done about that?”

Hannibal does make a noise when Will kneels in between his legs. It’s not dissent at all, but neither is it words. When Will grabs Hannibal’s sweaty waist and yanks him up, Hannibal mewls but stays in the position Will maneuvers him, bottom at a perfect angle for Will. When Will tests him with a few fingers, Hannibal makes the faintest pleading sound, almost like he’s urging Will on.

Will taps once, twice, thrice, just to hear Hannibal moan. “Do you want it, Hannibal? I mean, we both know you do. But do you acknowledge that?”

The carpet beneath them shuffles and twitches; Hannibal nodding, ever so slightly, into the floor.

Will hums. “I didn’t hear you.”

He’s so hard it almost hurts, but the wait is worth it to hear Hannibal force out a broken “Yes” to the floor, half-sob and half-plea.

Will wastes no time, after that, slipping into Hannibal and finding that, yes, that large vibrator did make it easier for Will to pound deep inside, and Hannibal makes the most glorious punched out sounds as Will keeps going, not protesting even though he must be sore and tired as hell. The world blurs down to heat and madness and pleasure, and Will snarls, as feral and animalistic as Hannibal in chasing his release. When it takes hold, Will digs his fingers so deeply that Hannibal jerks and tightens until tears escape Will’s eyes.

By the time Will pulls out and staggers to his feet, Hannibal has well and truly passed out. He doesn’t even move when Will pinches him, not once but twice. Will heaves Hannibal over and looks at him, drenched in sweat and covered in come, and wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at Hannibal in the eye again.

“Well,” Will says, “I guess it’s bedtime for you, Dr. Lecter.”

The key, knife, and vibrator Will leaves at the bottom of the stairs, but he takes the ropes.

* * *

Hannibal wakes up, among other things, sore. He has a bone deep ache all over, from his arms to his legs to the place between his legs, although Hannibal hasn’t indulged in such wanton pleasures since he first discovered sex. Nowadays, the only soreness comes from a good workout or a good hunt – or both.

Usually, the cure is a day’s rest, a good meal, and a hot bath, but when Hannibal goes to get out of bed, he finds himself unable to do so.

Hannibal’s eyes fly wide open, and he looks up to find his arms trussed securely to his headboard, a Gordian knot holding them taught. His legs are similarly bound, feet anchored to the ends of his bed, shamelessly displaying him and holding him spread-eagled. He is naked as the day he was born, and utterly filthy besides, and when Hannibal inhales, he smells his own scent, pungent and fierce, of come and sweat and tears, but more importantly, he smells someone else.

Someone else in the room.

Will Graham steps into the light, arms crossed and a Mona Lisa smile on his face. He is dressed in Hannibal’s bathrobe and his hair is wet, like he took a shower in Hannibal’s bathroom. He looks like the cat who caught the canary, and Hannibal can’t help the swallow the bobs in his throat as he takes in Will’s smug countenance. 

Still, he can’t let his mongoose get the first word. “Hello, Will,” Hannibal says, and winces at how the words crackle in his throat.

Will’s smile grows deeper at that. “Hello, Hannibal.”

For a moment, it makes Hannibal wonder if Will used his throat as thoroughly as he used everything else of Hannibal’s – but no, for when he licks at his mouth he tastes nothing but saliva. So. The hoarseness must be due to time, then, time and long hours spent screaming fruitlessly into the gag.

“Was the bannister no longer to your liking?” Hannibal asks courteously.

Will shrugged. “It worked well. But there was an element of risk, you know. People might walk in. You really ought to lock your door, Dr. Lecter.”

“But then how would you come in from the cold?”

“You’d be surprised at what a kid from the south can do with a wire and a lock,” Will replies. He tilts his head. “Did you enjoy what you let in from the cold?”

Hannibal smiles. In his mind palace, he can see it so clearly: Will’s adorable concentrated squint as he manipulated the ropes he dug out of Hannibal’s study; his exaggerated slowness due to intoxication as he wound the ropes around Hannibal’s wrist; his unsteady hand as he dragged the knife through Hannibal’s thousand-dollar suit and left Hannibal bare and cold. It was unexpected, to be sure, but Hannibal is not in the habit of lying to himself regarding what brings the beast inside him pleasure.

That doesn’t mean he is so cavalier with Will, though. 

“I’m afraid we were both quite . . . intoxicated,” Hannibal says.

Will hums. He puts a hand deep into the pocket in Hannibal’s bathrobe and pull something out, which he tosses onto the bed between Hannibal’s legs. Hannibal pulls instinctively at the ropes keeping his legs straight before he even recognizes the object, thick and long and designed beautifully to bring Hannibal off whenever he pleases.

“I found more of these in your drawer,” Will says mildly. “Your drawer which you can lock, I see. You let me open it.”

“I have nothing to hide from you, Will.”

“Then tell the truth,” Will challenges, flashing his teeth like a lioness at a hyena. “Tell me if you enjoyed what you let in from the cold, Hannibal. Or I’ll shove that back inside you and turn it to maximum again. Maybe I’ll leave for you an entire day, this time.”

Hannibal closes his eyes and licks at his lips. It’s certainly an intriguing thought, but Hannibal does have patients tomorrow, and he can’t possibly cancel the appointments bound up as he is.

“Maybe I’ll let you,” Hannibal says.

When he opens his eyes, he sees that the implicit admission is not lost upon Will. Sweet, monstrous, perceptive Will. Will inhales sharply, nose flaring, and grips at Hannibal’s bathrobe like he’s trying to stop himself from ravaging Hannibal right then and there.

So Hannibal continues. “Maybe I’ll let you cut my clothes off again. Maybe I’ll let you make those beautiful knots with your beautiful hands to hold me down. Maybe I’ll even let you come down my throat. I haven’t gotten a good look at you, Will, and it would be lovely to see all of you, as you have seen all of me.”

“Have I?” Will asks, like a lost child. “Have I seen all of you?”

“Oh, yes,” Hannibal purrs. He strains against the ropes, not to escape, but to present his body, because it’s not lost on him that Will had eyed him eagerly and up close as he bound Hannibal to the bannister and positioned him just so. “Do you think I have any more secrets from you, now that you’ve seen me like that?”

Will seems to consider it. He tilts his head back and forth, eyes raised to the ceiling, and Hannibal waits patiently to see what happens. If Will never touched him again, he would most certainly mourn the loss, but if Will decides otherwise . . . well.

After a long moment, Will comes to a decision. He nods to himself, sharply, like he’s hearing an order in his ear, and then he prowls forward like a lion stalking his prey. He crawls onto the bed, eyes fixed upon Hannibal’s face. One hand goes to Hannibal’s knee, burning hot; the other goes to the place in between Hannibal’s legs, and Hannibal can’t help the moan that comes out of him when Will probes inside.

Will hums. “If I took you again, would you let me?”

“Yes,” Hannibal answers immediately.

“If I jerked you off again, would you let me?”

“Yes.”

“And if I decided,” Will says, “just to put that vibrator back inside you and walk away, would you let me?”

“Dearest Will,” Hannibal breathes, “I would let you do anything you want.”

Will smiles, then, and asks his last question straight into Hannibal’s ear, silky smooth and dangerous. “And if I wanted to pry your last secret out of you,” he murmurs, “would you let me?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, for what else can he say?

Will pulls back and sits on his haunches. His face goes smooth and calm, and with studied disinterest he picks up the vibrator and inspects it. Then he pushes it back inside Hannibal, inch by torturous inch, and when Hannibal is finally able to breathe again when it’s all inside, Will puts his hand in his other pocket and takes out the remote.

“Alright, then,” Will says, calm and placid as a lake at sunrise, “tell me your last secret, Hannibal Lecter. Tell me who you are.”

“You already know, my darling – ”

The last word, Hannibal loses to a cry, because Will turns the vibrator up to max without a single chance in his expression. Hannibal writhes and strains and pulls, but the ropes hold fast, and when Will finally dials it back down, Hannibal finds himself winded as though he’s run a marathon.

“You said you’d let me do anything to do,” Will sing-songs. “Answer me truthfully, now. Or I will walk away. Tell me who you are, Hannibal Lecter.”

“Will – ”

Hannibal soars to the highest clouds again, powered by the fierce vibration and the bite of the ropes. When he comes back down to earth, Will is still there, as calm and immovable as stone, perfectly unruffled and still as a painting.

“Tell me who you are, Hannibal Lecter.”

The answer does not come with Hannibal’s conscious intent. Will brought the storm that blew off the dust when he blew into Hannibal’s life; he pried open the floorboards when he pried open Hannibal’s rooms and drawers; he plumbed to the deepest depths when he grabbed Hannibal’s longest and deepest toy and shoved it deep inside. Hannibal no more consciously answers than he consciously decided, last night, to let Will tie him up and cut off his clothes once he got drunk enough.

Will accepts the answer all the same, as dignified as a king receiving a confession.

The vibration dials down, slowly and surely, and Will waits to speak again when Hannibal’s breathing has returned somewhat to normal.

“Well, then,” Will says, “what am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want,” Hannibal answers.

“You really mean it,” Will says, and it is not a question. “God, you really mean it. The Chesapeake Ripper, at my beck and call.”

“I don’t let just anyone tie me up.”

“Liar, you’ve never let anyone tie you up,” Will replies immediately. He sighs, deeply, and looks at Hannibal again. “Round two?”

“I make no promises about my ability to achieve orgasm,” Hannibal notes. “I am older than you, my dear, and you’ve certainly been quite thorough. But I am sure that you can put me to good use.”

“Oh, you’ll come, Hannibal,” Will says. “You’re not leaving this bed until you do.”

“I have patients tomorrow, Will.”

Will raises an eyebrow and picks the remote control back up. He holds it as a king holds a sword, an executioner holds the axe, a judge holds a mallet – with perfect confidence and a terrible smile. 

“As I said: you’re not leaving this bed until you come for me.”

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Will and Hannibal live happily ever after, Will helps Hannibal cover up his Ripper habits and also likes to tie Hannibal up and torture him with overstim when he gets annoying. Hannibal may or may not be annoying on purpose sometimes. 
> 
> Check out the rest of the amazing works in the [#JFMU AO3 collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HCJustFuckMeUp2020)! 
> 
> Also come join us at the [Sub Hanni Discord](https://twitter.com/bonesandscales/status/1208357531430653957) if you're curious about what nonsense we get up to alongside the likes of this prompt. 
> 
> Find me @ Telegram/Discord as TheSilverQueen : [Pillowfort as TheSilverQueen](https://www.pillowfort.social/thesilverqueen) : [Tumblr as thesilverqueenlady](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com) : [Twitter as silverqueenlady](https://twitter.com/silverqueenlady) : [NewTumbl as thesilverqueen](https://thesilverqueen.newtumbl.com/) : [Dreamwidth as thesilverqueenlady](https://thesilverqueenlady.dreamwidth.org/)


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